I actually feel sorry for Jack tonight. I am ruthlessly cranky. It’s not his fault. Well…it’s not entirely his fault. You see, I have wicked PMS right now. For those of you lucky enough to have never experienced it, it can be best described as the way you would feel if you drank two entire pots of coffee, realized you were late for work, ran out of gas and had to walk six miles through a sea of clueless, slow-moving people who won’t make eye contact with you and won’t get out of your way. Times three.
It doesn’t take much to make me go from one extreme to another when I’m PMSing. I got choked up because Jack cleaned up the dinner dishes without being asked, then had a hissy fit (with a couple of tears) 20 minutes later because he couldn’t get the printer to work.
On nights like this, I often consider saying goodbye to those who mean the most to me (the dogs…HAHAHA…kidding…kind of) in the event that Jack smothers me in my sleep. I really couldn’t blame him.
It’s been a bad week, to be honest. I mean, any week that starts with your hair on fire is destined to end badly, right?
OK, so it wasn’t technically ‘on fire’, but it might as well have been.
I should preface this with a brief explanation of my relationship with my hair. I hate it almost as much as I hate my (piece-of-shit) front-loading washing machine that was manufactured in a Chinese toy factory. Almost. It has no rhyme or reason. It’s pin straight on the left front, frizzy in the back and wavy everywhere else (not the pretty kind of wavy; my sister refers to it as a ‘bacon wave’). Also, I have enough hair for three people. No, seriously. My stylist has to book extra time for my appointments and can probably skip the gym for the workout she gets blowing it dry.
This would be a good time to mention that my father is bald. And bitter. He’s made several comments about the injustice of it all.
Because my hair is such a freak show, washing and drying it is an ordeal. I only do it every other day because it’s so time-consuming and exhausting. I have to schedule my morning differently on ‘wash-my-hair days’ because it adds at least 45 minutes to my routine.
Sometime late last week, I had a bit of a mishap when I was getting ready.
If you could see me get ready in the morning, you would understand why I am almost always disheveled. I sit on my bed Indian-style, surrounded by my (many) beauty tools (for it takes a lot of effort to create the illusion that I am a presentable human being), with a mirror propped on the bed in front of me. Frankie, our clueless chihuahua mix, always finds a way to jump on the bed, charge through all of my stuff and curl up on my lap. If he hears the wings of a butterfly in the backyard, he’ll jump off my lap, run around the bed, knock over all of my stuff (again), use my leg as a launching pad and hurl himself to the floor and out the door. It’s a very frustrating ordeal.
Anyway, I blow my hair dry, pull it up in a clip and use a fire-hot flat iron to straighten it one small section at a time, starting at the bottom and working my way to the top. Just the straightening part takes about 20 minutes, so you can imagine how relieved I am when I get to the last section.
Well, late last week something very unfortunate happened. As I was sectioning off the last bit of my mop of hair, I heard my flat iron make a weird popping sound and I smelled something burning.
Oh, HELL no! I was on my LAST section!!
So, I did what any woman would do. I threw caution to the wind and straightened the last section.
Did I ever mention that I’m a wacko fire freak? It’s really bad. I have turned the car around more times than I care to admit to make sure the iron, the stove, the flat iron, the dryer and/or anything else that might create a spark was turned off. I won’t let Jack sleep with the ceiling fan on because I’ve convinced myself that it will catch fire while we sleep. I am nervous leaving lights on at night because, in spite of Jack’s assurance that it won’t happen, I’m sure that the lightbulb’s heat will ignite either the lampshade or the ceiling and set the house on fire. Our air conditioner compressor thingy is in the attic. Every summer he has to talk me off a ledge and explain that it will not simultaneously combust regardless of how hot it is in the attic. I’m pretty sure that’s a filthy lie. We’re doomed.
Yet I didn’t give a second thought to picking up that molten flat iron and running it through my hair.
It was my LAST section!!!
Only the flat iron didn’t move quite as smoothly through my hair and the last piece looked a little different when I was finished. Like it was sticking out or something. The next day, I ran my hand through my hair and was horrified to find that the last 2-3 inches of that section of my hair was completely singed. Scarecrow-style.
Me: Look at my hair! I burned it! No, seriously, it’s singed!
Jack: Wow. It looks really dry in that spot. How did you do that?
Me: My flat iron popped and made an electrical burning smell, but it was my last section, so I used it anyway.
Jack: Why would you do that?!?
Me: It was my LAST section!!
I ended up calling my stylist, who expressed concern through her giggles, and told me to pop in and she’d see if she could fix it. And she did. She managed to work a small miracle and cut most of the singed part off. Of course, my layers are a little shorter than they usually are, so I may or may not look like Shaun Cassidy. Whatever. It could be worse. I could have set my whole head (and the house) on fire.